


Tempest in a Teacup

by opencirclefleet



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opencirclefleet/pseuds/opencirclefleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tahl lifted an eyebrow. "You've brought me a cup?" she asked. A series of oneshots, spanning the distance of several generations of Jedi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempest in a Teacup

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the entirety of the Lineage fandom for giving me feels about Tahl earlier. It's my turn now :P

“Get in here, Jinn, before you catch a cold on my doorstep.” Tahl stepped aside as the much taller Jedi Master squeezed through her apartment door. “There had better be a reason you’re interrupting my midday meditation, my friend.”

 

Qui-Gon grinned, holding out a brown paper wrapped parcel. “Not to worry, I come bearing gifts.”

 

Tahl seemed to seriously consider this point. “Hmm. Then you may be forgiven.” She took the parcel from his hands and gestured for him to sit in the main room.  "It’s been too long, my friend. How is that padawan of yours doing?"

 

"Feemor is becoming a fine young Jedi,” Qui-Gon said, smiling at the thought of his young apprentice, “I suspect he will be ready for his trials in the next year or two."

 

"Your first padawan," Tahl teased, "Do you feel old yet?" She reached out to finger a lock of Qui-Gon’s long hair, streaks of gray intermingled with the dark brown.

 

He slapped her hand away with a playful frown. "Ancient. Force help me if I ever take another--I'll have gone completely gray by the time of their trials. But enough about my age--open your gift, my very young friend.”

 

“If you insist.” Her nimble fingers made short work of the paper wrappings, lifting the single object to hold up to the light.

 

Tahl lifted an eyebrow. "You've brought me a cup?" she asked, amused at such an ostentatious and impractical gift.

 

"A cup of the finest Chandrillan china, used by the Chandrillan high matriarch herself," Qui-Gon corrected her.

 

Tahl lightly fingered the delicate curve of the handle. Decorative waves, painstakingly painted on the surface, looked almost so lifelike that they appeared to move. "Do I really seem like the fine china type to you?"

 

Qui-Gon pressed a hand over his heart like it physically pained him. “You wound me,” he mocked, “To think, I bring you back a gift I thought you would thoroughly enjoy, and you can’t even dredge up enough appreciation for a simple ‘thank you’.”

 

Tahl rolled her eyes at him. She ran her fingers over the sharp edges of a missing segment, splitting a hole in the rim. "There's a chip in it," she commented mildly, sensing a story behind a fracture in the nearly indestructible Chandrillan porcelain.

 

"Ah, yes. That would be from when the high matriarch threw it at my head,” the other Jedi mumbled, as bashful as Qui-Gon Jinn could get.

 

"Do tell,” Tahl smiled, gingerly setting the cup down in the narrow (perhaps too narrow) space between them.

 

* * *

There was no question that the oceanic teacup on the lowest shelf was Tahl’s cup, the fine decorative china standing out among plain ceramic mugs and glasses that served only a functional purpose. Whenever the Noorian Master came over for tea, the cup would be pulled from its spot in the cupboard without hesitation. Even when it was just Obi-Wan taking tea with Tahl when Qui-Gon was away on a solo assignment, the padawan would grab the delicate cup without a second thought.

 

The very thought of Master Tahl sent a pang through his heart. Obi-Wan took a deep breath and released it slowly, hoping to lessen the tight ache in his chest. It was still hard coming to terms with Tahl’s death, especially after the trial for the vile Zan Arbor had concluded.

 

Qui-Gon hadn't been fairing well either. The usually enigmatic Jedi was far too quiet; Obi-Wan would have almost called it brooding if the situation hadn’t taken such a dire toll on his Master’s well being. Jedi were supposed to celebrate the passing of the dead into the living Force, but Qui-Gon was very obviously mourning the loss of his closest friend.

 

"I'll put on some tea," the padawan murmured, Qui-Gon following him into the kitchenette. Tahl’s funeral service had just ended, and it seemed to have stolen all the energy from both Master and apprentice. Obi-Wan blindly reached for two cups and set them out on the table, turning around to search for a box of tea in their mess of a cupboard. “Would you prefer hlacyon root or nori blossom?”

 

There was no reply, only a sharp spike of negativity across their bond. “Master?” Obi-Wan turned to look at him, and froze as he realized his mistake.

 

Without thinking, he had grabbed the china cup--Tahl’s cup--and placed it in front of his Master, as if they were about to have tea with his dead friend.

 

“Master--I--” Obi-Wan stuttered, wanting to apologize but not quite sure what to say. Qui-Gon’s steely gaze remained firmly planted on the cup, not a twitch of emotion betraying his impassive expression.

 

Suddenly he stood, grabbing the cup with such force that Obi-Wan winced. For a moment, he feared Qui-Gon would smash it in a fit of rage, and then what would that spell for their memories of Tahl?

 

He watched as his master strode purposefully over to the shelf in the main room, his collection of items from various mission spread out on its surface. Gingerly, Qui-Gon slid aside a purple seedling pod from Orios and fitted the cup on the end of the shelf. The small chip in the rim was turned to face the back, leaving the smooth painted waves facing the main room.

 

Obi-Wan didn’t say a word as Qui-Gon returned to his seat and slumped down with a sigh. “Why don’t we have some tea, padawan?” he said, and for the first time in days, the shadow of grief and anger had cleared in his Force presence.

 

Relieved, Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes, Master,” he agreed with a small smile, and set about grabbing another mug from the cupboard.

 

* * *

 

There was a shelf in the main room of Anakin’s new home, dark wood juxtaposing the cream colored walls of the apartment. Various knick knacks and small keepsakes littered its surface. There was a sea shell, several specimens of rocks, what looked like a dried purple seedpod, and several items whose function he had no idea of.

 

But Anakin’s favorite item was the delicate china cup on the far end. Rimmed with gold and white as desert-bleached bones, it was perfectly perfect in every way. Cerulean waves decorated the porcelain, painted in such a way that Anakin could almost see them splashing along the rim. He liked the cup because it reminded him of the oceans of Naboo. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost hear the crashing waves lapping over the shores, feel the cool spray against his skin.

 

Unfortunately, the shelf was too far above his head for him to reach. That would soon change, Anakin reasoned, if his last growth spurt had been anything to go by. But for now, the only way to see the objects up close was to climb the back of the couch and stand on his tiptoes.

 

Obi-Wan would scold him for climbing on the furniture, but what harm could it really do? After all, as they said, curiosity killed the Loth cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

 

He inched his foot closer, trying to get a closer look at the wave design, and sensed more than felt his foot slipping off the edge. In his wild flailing to stay upright, Anakin’s hand knocked the cup over, and both he and it fell crashing to the ground.

 

Anakin, lying on the carpet with the wind knocked from his lungs, watched in abject terror as the cup hit the ground. It didn’t shatter like he thought it would, thank the Force. Instead, it bounced, clinked over the floor--and rolled to a stop at a pair of booted feet.

 

Obi-Wan stooped to pick it up, looking at his padawan with raised eyebrows. “Anakin,” his master said, bewildered, “What are you doing on the floor?”

 

In Obi-Wan’s hands, the cup looked fine, unbroken and whole. Until he looked closer. Anakin’s eyes widened as he realized with a stab of fear that there was now a large chip in the perfect porcelain surface.

 

“I was just looking at it and I knocked it over and I fell,” he tried to explain. Tears blurred his vision; he’d broken something that had probably been Master Qui-Gon’s. He watched, horrified, as Obi-Wan ran a finger over the large chip in the rim, waiting for the inevitable anger and punishment.  “I’m sorry, Master, I didn’t mean to break it, I--”

 

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan soothed, “That chip has always been there.”

 

“I--what?”

 

“Qui-Gon put the chip facing the wall so it wouldn’t be noticeable. This cup is made from Chandrillan china, padawan. I would be incredibly impressed if you had managed to break it.”

 

“Oh.” Anakin felt a sudden flush of relief.

As Obi-Wan set the cup back in its rightful place on the shelf, Anakin picked up on something he hadn’t realized earlier. “Why do you have these? I thought Jedi weren’t supposed to have possessions?”

 

Obi-Wan scattered the thin layer of dust powdering the objects with a huff of breath. “Qui-Gon collected these from the world we visited," his Master said, that expression that was equal parts happy and sad at the same time reserved only for Qui-Gon gracing his features, “He called them “memories” instead of possessions. I never quite understood the difference either.”

 

“Could you tell me about them? The planets?” Anakin asked hesitantly. They were still new at this whole master/padawan thing, after all, and he hadn’t yet learned which conversations to avoid altogether. He hoped Master Qui-Gon would not be one of those topics.

 

Obi-Wan ruffled the boy’s spiky blonde hair with a smile. “It would be my pleasure, padawan.”

 

* * *

 

Screams had long since faded into unnatural silence, still echoing in the Force. Occasionally the sounds of a lightsaber igniting and subsequent blaster fire disrupted the unearthly quiet, but the disturbances were growing few and far between.

 

The floor he was on was quiet, of both noise and Force presence. Vader’s gloved fingers ran over the edges of a nameplate next to the apartment door, trailing over the raised letters pushing up from the metal. He swallowed hard, pushing the blast-fire scored door open. Inside was the same as he left it that morning, the calming feel of his and Kenobi’s quarters washing over him.

 

Most likely this would be the last time he came in here.

 

Vader stood there in the doorway, drinking in the scene, unwilling to walk in and threaten to break the illusion of peace within the room. Everything held an air of comfort to it; the worn couches, the faint smell of nori blossom tea lingering in the air, the shelf of Qui-Gon’s “memories” gathering a light coat of dust in the wall.

 

Vader strode over to the shelf. A ghost of a smile twitched his lips upwards as he picked an object up--the china cup had been one of his favorite items to look at when he was younger.

 

Echoes of a better time bounced around in his head. Vader shook his head. He didn’t want to think about them--how far the Jedi had fallen, how he knew Kenobi had survived the order to execute all Jedi.

 

How he would most likely have to kill him.

 

His mechanical hand tightened around the cup, unconsciously taking out his rage on the item that mocked him with its memories. Porcelain crackled in his grip, spidery cracks appearing along its sides, but it did not break.

 

With a yell of frustration, Vader threw it against the wall, waiting for the inevitable satisfaction of hearing it shatter. But that never came, and Vader stormed out of the room that had once been a home to him, the damaged cup lying on its side on the floor.

 

 

* * *

 

One of the first things Luke had done after the fall of the Empire was journey to Coruscant. The Jedi Temple had stood for more than two decades as a shrine to a fallen society.

 

Inside was like a tomb, dead and silent to those without the Force. To a Jedi, the Force shuddered with ghosts of screams and impressions of death. Shadows lingered in every corner. It would take a while before the Temple would be safe to use again.

 

He’d been through most of the rooms, not including the floors that house the living quarters.

Luke brushed his fingers over the plate outside the doorway: Kenobi-Skywalker. A smile ghosted across his lips; this must have been where his father and Ben lived.

 

A wave of his hand slid open the door with the Force. It looked like every other apartment in the Temple. Luke found himself slightly disappointed there wasn’t anything to tell him more about his father and his mentor.

 

Without the thick layer of dust coating every surface, the room looked as neat and pristine as he imagined it was back in the days of the Republic. Almost too neat, like a historical site preserving a time long since past.

 

Looking around, the only thing Luke noticed was out of place was a cup--white porcelain with painted waves, chipped on the rim and shot through with long cracks. It lay on its side on the floor beneath a dent in the wall. Luke carefully picked it up, a wave of emotions crashing over him. Anger, sadness pain, love--the cup had seen it all in its lifetime.

 

“Luke?” Leia’s voice called from the hallway. She appeared in the door, looking strained. She was still learning how to put mental shields in place, and the weight of the Temple’s negative Force energy was taking a toll on her. “What are you doing?”

  
“Just...looking around.” He gingerly placed the cracked cup back on the shelf it must have fallen off of, fitting it neatly into the space on the end of a shelf where it belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of one line in Lineage VII by ruth baulding on fanfiction.net, where it mentions a cup given to Tahl by Qui-Gon. This uses the Lineage timeline (slightly different than the Jedi Apprentice order of events I think)


End file.
